


drums in my head, strings in my heart

by tryslora



Series: Mating Games Round 2 [15]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Background Paige/Derek, Background Relationships, Community: mating_games, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mentioned Paige, Trapped In Elevator, Violinist Stiles, Violins, Young Derek, Young Stiles, met earlier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, he’s late. He’s like… five minutes late for his lesson with Mr. Larsen, and he is pretty sure he’s going to get ripped apart about it. Life was simpler when he had weekly lessons at school for the last two years. But now that he’s in sixth grade, the middle school has time for an orchestra class but no chance for lessons, which leaves Stiles stuck racing here after school with his violin in order to meet with a guy who doesn’t think Stiles has enough patience for lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drums in my head, strings in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for bonus challenge #6 - Meet Cute at mating_games. It is also in honor of being at my daughter's school and listening to the chamber orchestra while brainstorming (all those violins! and cellos!). And it is for every child who struggles with the idea of whether to stick with music or give it up because lessons are hard, and for every person for whom music has intense personal meaning. As always, I do not own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

 

**_Then_ **

“Dude!” Stiles waves his hand wildly, yelling as he races across the lobby, soft violin case hanging down from where it’s slung across his back, bumping against his legs. He just barely manages to slide into the elevator before the door closes, and looks up at the lanky teenager who is lounging against the opposite wall. “You could’ve held it, dude.”

“I could’ve,” the guy says. “Didn’t.”

“Gee, thanks.” After all, it’s not like Stiles is _late_.

Okay, he’s late. He’s like… five minutes late for his lesson with Mr. Larsen, and he is pretty sure he’s going to get ripped apart about it. Life was simpler when he had weekly lessons at school for the last two years. But now that he’s in sixth grade, the middle school has time for an orchestra class but no chance for lessons, which leaves Stiles stuck racing here after school with his violin in order to meet with a guy who doesn’t think Stiles has enough _patience_ for lessons.

It’s not like he even _likes_ violin.

Maybe he likes it a little.

Drums are better.

 _Way_ better.

Stiles taps out a rhythm against the wall with his fingertips while the elevator rises. It starts simple, but quickly twists complicated, switching from thumb to forefinger to get a different sound, his toe tapping and shifting to his heel to get a bit of bass. He’s moving around, the beat singing in his mind, when a low sound interrupts him.

He blinks.

“Dude, did you just _growl_ at me?”

The other guy just gives him a look. “What do you think I am? Some kind of animal?”

There’s something in how he says it, like it’s a _joke_ , that has Stiles looking at him. Stiles tilts his head, narrowing his gaze. Mom says there are more things in the world than anyone can imagine, and Stiles believes her. He knows that things aren’t right in her head—no matter how much Dad tries to hide it from him, Stiles knows it’s bad. But the thing is, he’s not sure everything Mom says is _just_ in her head, either. She’s told him stories since he was little, and she hasn’t been sick for all that long.

Some of the things she’s told him are true, he’s sure of it. So he just looks at the guy, lips pressed together in a considering frown. “Maybe,” he says slowly. “People don’t normally growl. _Dogs_ growl.”

“No dogs in this elevator.”

The floor shudders, slowing, then drops abruptly. Stiles squeaks—he does _not_ scream, thank you very much—and curls his fingers around the rail, holding on tight as the elevator thuds to a stop several feet later. “Holy _shit,_ what was that?”

The guy gives him another _look_. “Elevator fell.” It’s clear from the way he says it that the words _you idiot_ are tagged silently onto the end of the sentence. “We’re stuck.”

“ _Obviously_.” Stiles can’t resist poking at him with that, rolling his eyes at the way the guy turns away from him. His gaze flicks around, taking in the polished gold-toned railing, the dark wood panels, the mirrors on the wall. He stops when he sees the panel of buttons, including the bright red emergency. “Or maybe not.” He manages to get there and push it before the guy can stop him, hitting it a few times for good measure.

Other than hearing a distant ring, nothing happens. 

Well, and that growl again.

“Did you have to do that?” the guy asks.

“At least now they know we’re stuck,” Stiles counters. “That’s what the alarm is _for_. And maybe we’re not really _stuck_. Maybe we can get the doors open.” He pushes the door open button a couple of times, scowling when nothing happens.

“Fuck.” Stiles lets the forbidden word pop, rough and hard, clicking against his teeth as he sinks to the ground. He leans back against the wall, his violin bag trapped and uncomfortable behind him. “I’m going to be _really_ late now.”

The other guy crouches down. “For what?”

“Violin.” Stiles shrugs. “Larsen already hates me. It probably doesn’t matter, except my mom’ll be upset.” And he doesn’t want to upset Mom because she’s so… things already bother her more deeply than she wants to show. And she loves violin. She plays CDs for Stiles all the time, and it’s something they share. He wants to be good at it for _her_.

“That’s where I’m going.”

Stiles takes in the letter jacket, the gym bag, the faint sheen of sweat on the guy’s forehead. “Really? _You_ play violin?”

The guy laughs. “I don’t play anything. My girlfriend does, so I’m picking her up.” He has a small, shy, _pleased_ smile. “We don’t get to spend much time together, so I’m walking her home from her lesson. The long way.”

Stiles is pretty sure there’s a joke he should be getting somewhere in there, but it’s lost on him. “I hope Larsen likes her better than he does me,” he offers.

“She’s amazing, so yeah, he does. She plays the cello.” The guy pulls a pocket knife out and flips it open while Stiles skitters back across the floor.

“Dude. This is _not_ my fault.”

One eyebrow shoots up. “Do you think I’m going to stab you?”

“No.” Stiles is lying, because for just one moment maybe it could’ve been an option. “Of course not.”

“I was thinking that if I could get this started, maybe we could pull the doors open.” The words come out calm and even, but Stiles hears something underneath it that has him scrambling to his feet. He shrugs out of his jacket and untangles himself from the strap of his violin case, dropping both on the floor. “Sure, I’ll help. I’m stronger than I look.”

The guy smirks. “Me too.” He wedges the tip of the open knife into the crack and wiggles it back and forth. “Quick, get your fingertips in and pull.”

The door moves. It _moves_ , then just as abruptly it _stops_ and the guys steps back, looking at the one inch gap. “Guess that’s not going to work.”

“Only because you weren’t trying,” Stiles accuses.

“I was trying.”

It’s funny how the guy won’t _look_ at Stiles now, and _that_ is a sure sign of lying. Stiles knows it, because he’s used it. Not on purpose. The best way to lie is to look someone in the eye and say what you want them to believe, perfect and calm, like it’s nothing. Eye contact makes them think it’s real.

Stiles learns a lot from listening to Dad talk about how criminals do things wrong (and Stiles remembers so he gets them right, just in case he ever needs them).

“Fine. So we’re stuck.” Stiles flops back onto the floor, tapping lightly with his fingers.

“Cut that out.”

“I’m bored.”

“Then do something.”

Okay, the guy has a point. It’s not like Stiles is completely out of options here. He has homework ( _boring_ ). He also has his violin, and a shortage of time spent practicing, which means he _could_ do that. Oh and hey, if Mr. Larsen hears it, maybe Stiles will get some points back after losing them for being late.

He unzips the soft cover and carefully takes the violin out, tucking it under his chin just so. It’s the only time he’s really still; even playing video games he’s in constant motion, echoing the game itself. But this was Mom’s violin and he has to be _cautious_ and _slow_ because she loves to hear him play.

“You are not going to do that now.”

Stiles doesn’t even look up. “I’m not bad at it. Mom started teaching me when I was little. Before I started lessons in fourth grade.”

“Which was what, last year?” The guy rolls his eyes.

“Two years ago. But Mom started when I was five.” Stiles inhales once, lets it out slowly, trying to find the music inside of himself. Slow and sweet, not the rattling beat that shakes his limbs. He draws the string across and sighs with the notes, trying to tease music from the instrument.

Okay, so maybe he _does_ like violin. And he loves the way it settles into his bones and roots him to the floor, holding him still and enthralled, like music really does soothe the savage beast.

He doesn’t miss the way the stranger stares at him, either, and he smirks because he really _is_ good and no one ever believes him.

“Are you all right down there?”

The voice is tinny and far away, echoing slightly, but it has Stiles on his feet and shouting back. They both yell that they’re _fine_ just _stuck_ and could they _get them out_.

By the time the door is wedged open with a pair of pry bars, Stiles has neatly packed away his violin. He hands it out first, carefully and gently, then pushes his backpack up. The guy pushes him up next, into the waiting arms of workmen come to rescue them, then scrambles out himself, strangely graceful as Stiles watches.

“You should keep going to lessons.” The guy’s voice is low. “You’re not half bad. You could talk to my girlfriend, if you want to know what it’s like playing when you get to high school. Her name is—”

“Derek!”

A girl comes running down the hall, throws her arms around the guy—Derek’s—shoulders, and snuggles in close. His arms close around her, hands sliding down her back, and Stiles looks away because _that_ is what he sees when Mom and Dad think he’s not looking. That’s _love_ and he doesn’t know what to think about it, how to parse it with his twelve-year-old brain, so he just _doesn’t_. Instead he thinks about what Derek said and he throws his backpack and violin bag over his shoulder, and he walks away.

He thinks maybe he will talk to Derek’s girlfriend. Maybe next week.

Except next week she isn’t there, and he never does see her again.

Besides, Stiles quits not long after that, and he doesn’t really think about it any more. It was just a stupid violin.

 

**_Now_ **

The room is littered with boxes stacked on every available surface. Stiles is working to unload the bureau while Derek stares into the closet, emptied of clothes but still filled with random things that need to be packed. He decides to start at the top, reaching up and into the back of the shelf, fingers closing over something fabric-covered but hard on the inside.

When he pulls it out, he stares at the soft zippered bag, the shape of the violin obvious to his eyes.

“I didn’t know you played the violin.”

Stiles turns, eyes going wide. “I don’t. I mean. Not anymore. I haven’t since I was twelve.” He trips over a box on his way to Derek’s side, hands reaching out to take the case. Derek doesn’t relinquish it, not wanting to see the instrument crash into the ground. Stiles barely touches it before he pulls back. “I quit, when my mom died.”

Derek gently unzippers it, his large hands careful as he takes the violin out. The wood still shines, parts worn where Stiles’s small hands had held it. “You loved it.”

Stiles blinks. “I did. But how—”

Derek can’t look at it without remembering Stiles playing. Without remembering _Paige_ and her cello. A muscle twitches, his jaw clenched tightly. “You were good,” he says gruffly. “Paige played cello with Larsen. There was an elevator.”

He sees the moment Stiles slides back in his memories, the moment when he captures the scene and brings it forward into his conscious mind. “That was you? You were so _young_.”

Derek snorts. “So were you.”

They stand there, the violin heavier than it ought to be in Derek’s hands. He starts to put it away, but Stiles stops him, one hand sliding down Derek’s arm. “No,” Stiles says quietly. “Give it here. It’s been a long time, but maybe I remember.”

He settles on the bed, fingers careful and cautious and _still_ in ways that Derek can barely recognize as _Stiles_. The violin is tucked up under his chin, the bow strings pulled taut. It takes a moment for him to tune it by ear, then Stiles draws the bow across the strings once and the instrument sighs softly, whispering its music under his touch.

There are tears on Derek’s cheeks that he doesn’t remember crying.

He’s not even sure _why_ he’s crying.

He has Stiles _right here_ and while the music reminds him of things long gone, it’s not like he’s still trapped in that world. He’s moved on and he loves where he is now, as shocking and strange a place as that is.

Stiles covers Derek’s hand with his own. “I miss her,” he says quietly, and for a moment Derek thinks that Stiles is talking about Paige. Then he remembers—Stiles’s mother—and he simply squeezes Stiles’s hand. “I mean, I never stopped missing her,” Stiles continues. “I miss her all the time, and when I listen to the orchestra, it’s like…” His dashes a hand across his eyes. “But like this. Playing. This is _her_ violin. It’s like she’s here and not here all at once and I miss her.”

It takes a moment, but Derek realizes that he’s not teary-eyed because of Paige. It’s Stiles, and the pain in his voice. Pain that Derek can’t steal away. He places his palm on Stiles’s cheek, turns him to look at him and kisses him slowly. “She’d be proud of who you became. I’m sure of that.”

Stiles gives a watery laugh. “She’d like you. And she’d hate that I gave up violin.”

“So start up again.”

Maybe it’s not that easy, but at the same time, maybe it _is_ that easy. Derek knows what it’s like to let things go because they _hurt_ , and he knows how hard it is to open up again. Stiles gave him back his heart; maybe he can help Stiles find his music.

“If I’m taking lessons, you’re going with me,” Stiles says quietly, fingers sliding along the neck of the instrument. “Just in case I get stuck in an elevator again. I _knew_ you were stronger than you said you were. You could’ve gotten us out all along.”

Derek just smirks.

“And the _growling_.” Stiles carefully places the violin back in its case, pulling the zipper closed. “You were _growling_ at me, dude. There _was_ a dog with me.”

It’s an expected poke, so Derek curls his lip, letting the growl slide out into the air, loud enough that Stiles laughs. “No dog jokes,” he says, nudging Stiles back on the bed.

“You keep growling, and I’ll make all the dog jokes I want.” Stiles grabs for a pillow, lightly whips Derek over the head with it. “Just think about all the time we missed. All the hell I went through when Scott was first bitten. What if I’d already known werewolves were real because you’d saved my ass in an elevator?”

The argument is lost when Derek retaliates for the pillow, and they roll across the bed, landing with a thump on the floor, Stiles straddling Derek and pushing down on him, as if that could actually hold him. Derek presses his hand against Stiles’s chest, feels the thump of his heart, steady and true and racing just a  bit. Derek smirks. “We weren’t ready then. And I think we’ve ended up okay.”

Stiles’s expression softens, and he leans in to brush his lips against Derek’s. “Yeah, yeah we have.”

It’s been a good eight years since they met in that elevator. Eight years since Stiles’s mother died, and eight years since Derek lost the first love of his life. But now, with Stiles moving in with him, with the worst of the past behind them, Derek knows that they are _finally_ in a good place. The right place.

Everything’s going to be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
